


Threads of Truth

by Dedicate Kiwicrocus (cranky__crocus)



Series: SMACKDOWN '11 Round Two - Team Discipline [11]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F, Goldenlake, smackdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Dedicate%20Kiwicrocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yazmín moves to Summersea after life on the road; she invites Lark over for tea. They have some things to talk about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threads of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SMACKDOWN at Goldenlake: fiefgoldenlake.proboards.com

“Paraskeve… _Lark_ ,” Yazmín pressed, voice sharper than either was accustomed to. “Tell me: why do you think I selected Summersea to settle, of all places?”

            Lark blinked. It took much to make her uncomfortable—always had, but the Mire had only deepened her threshold—but resurgences of her past seemed to make the list. Her insides knotted as a portion of her heart longed to live as she once had, while the rest of her hated the very idea of it. She couldn’t think of anything clever to say, or anything that wouldn’t immediately call attention to the pain beneath her skin; she shook her head.

            Yazmín laughed, but it was shallow with its hint of bitterness. “I could be anywhere, Paras, but I’m not. I’m here because _you’re_ here, or close enough.”

            “ _Why_ _?_ ” Lark—she reminded herself three times: Lark, Lark, _Lark_ —threw back, surprisingly graceless for her usual slow and understanding speech.

            “Because I love you,” Yazmín responded, dark eyes deep with truth. She took in the shock of her companion’s face and the hurt that followed, and quickly added, “Not like _that_ —though perhaps, some still, but I am perfectly pleased to have that unrequited.”

            “‘Perfectly pleased’?” Lark repeated, nearly gaping. She bit the inside of her lip and gazed down at their teacups—unmatched, now, but Lark could envision Yazmín possessing a full cupboard of quality items soon enough. She sighed, helpless. “Not entirely unrequited. You knew that would always be true—which is why it’s so hard that you’re _here_. I have Rosie, and…”

            Yazmín couldn’t cover the sting in her gaze at that, but it softened with compassion a second later. “I know. I won’t pressure you. I’m not here to be with you; I’m here to be near you. Travelling days were never the same when I knew you were here.”

            “You left me in the Mire!” Lark answered immediately; she hated herself for the old pain that had turned to anger and resentment in her words. “We could have made something of ourselves, as a pair, but you left me _alone_. Now you’re back to make a fortune and I’ve vowed to wear rags and own nothing.”

            The dancer was quiet for a moment, watching her vow-bound friend with judgement-free eyes. Their cheeks grew rosy. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and—Lark thought—perhaps a little jealous. “But would you have it taken back for the dust of the open roads?”

            Lark pictured the home she was making of Winding Circle and Discipline: her plates filled with food morning, afternoon and evening; a nightly bath for freshly-washed skin and hair; the bedroom with a bed and floor and ceiling that was _hers_ at least by inhabitancy; the clack and feel of her floor loom beneath her fingers—a whole floor loom, hers to use; and last but strongest, Rosie’s smiling face as she walked through the kitchen on the way to her garden.

            She sat back against her chair—spine slackening for the first time since she had received Yazmín’s letter—and sighed, reverent as much as it was yielding.

            “No, I wouldn’t give it up for the world.”

            Yazmín nodded, as if it all fit her expectations—and it did. Lark felt the spark of her old amusement and wondered if, soon enough, she would be able to laugh with Yazmín again as they once had, despite being two new extensions of old selves. But Yazmín’s words sobered her once more. “Can you blame me for wanting just a piece of that?”

            “No,” Lark responded, for she didn’t have to think on it. Blame was not a game she played well. “I can’t. And I find I no longer blame you for continuing on with the only life you knew; stepping into something unfamiliar is difficult—and I’m not sure I would have done it without being forced.” She smiled here, a little rueful but closing in on pride. “You are doing it now. I wish you luck in finding the pieces that will bring you joy in your new stationary home.”

            Yazmín’s eyes flashed. She was pretty and porcelain in a way that still pained Lark’s heart, but this time she would stick up for herself. Yazmín’s question was soft, as if she feared the answer and thought she might not ask at all. “Will you be a part of it?”

            “Give me time, Yazmín. You know this is sudden for me. Let me speak with Rosethorn and let me think on it.” Lark finished her tea and couldn’t help appreciating that Yazmín still knew her favourite blend, though Rosie had picked up on it too, in little time. She stood, just as graceful as Yazmín’s motions—which was not lost on the woman. Lark’s voice was gentler yet, freer and more herself. “When have you ever known me to not come around eventually?”

            Yazmín would have to take it, for it was all Lark had to give that day. _And please_ , Lark hoped in her heart, _let her realise I acknowledge she came around too, however long it took._ She couldn’t bear to speak the words yet and acknowledge that that part of her past was entirely complete, but she could hint; it was Yazmín’s responsibility to tug the thread of truth out, now.

 

 

In her dreams, Lark saw herself in the Mire slums covered in stained threads and mud. Little Paraskeve—the child she had been, running in the Janaali sun and Tharian streets—was superimposed over the older self she had been at the time, till naught was left but the projection of her childhood self. Little Paraskeve cried and hugged her knees, watching the disappearing tracks of the travelling troupe, the only steady home and family she had ever known.

            A graceful, long-limbed girl with brown curls and concerned dark eyes came running down the street, arms open wide. Paraskeve barely noticed in time to stand and embrace her friend.

            “I’m not leaving you, my friend,” little Yazmín murmured in the native tongue, breathy in Paraskeve’s ear. Tears streaked their joined cheeks as they wept together, unable to tear their arms from one another. “You are a true friend. We do not leave true friends behind.”

            Lark awoke in the night, Rosie’s head of auburn hair resting on her shoulder.

            Dreaming, Lark had always been taught, was one of the many paths to healing—and one of the indications to progress. Her heart did not pain her as it had the day before.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. (:


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